Of Blood and Ink~
by Shadowen
Summary: A how to on putting yourself in a diary! *Not* This is a dramatic telling of how Tom Riddle took part of his soul and placed it in a diary to preserve the Purpose of Slytherin forever...and what the consequences were for him later...slightly worrisome, no


Diary Who honestly doesn't know the 'I own nothing' code? JK Rowling owns Tom, the diary, the Riddle house, and the pope owns the guy in white, and either he or wiccans own the Shifter, and Germany owns the Nazis. Thusly, I own nothing! This story has no original characters, nothing! NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!   
Also, this is my first fan-fic so go easy on me, okay? Also, 'Of Blood and Ink' sounds suspiciously like that piece of trash novel 'Of Mice and Men' so maybe John Steinbeck owns the title. *sobs***__**

**_Of Blood and Ink _**   
Shadowen

Tom Marvelo Riddle stood over a strange collection of objects: a knife, a thin piece of wood, several jars, a shallow dish, a quill-pen, an ink pot, a two locks of hair, and a diary.   
Tom wasn't ordinary.   
Where most boys spent most of their time worrying about Nazi's, the Germans were at the back of Tom's mind.   
Most boys couldn't talk to snakes.   
Most boys weren't wizards.   
Most boys hadn't set a basilisk on their school.   
And most boys hadn't just finished killing their fathers.   
Tom was the only living soul left in the Riddle House. There were other people, but they, of course, were dead. He was silent, and no sound ran through the house except the wind...   
Picking up one lock of hair, a raven curl as dark as his own midnight hair, he fingered it fondly. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and put it in the stone dish. It was the last link to his mother and that part of his past. The spell needed things from his origins. His mother was his past.   
Then he picked up the other lock and tossed it carelessly in. The dark brown hairs of his deserting, scum-bag, father didn't deserve any worse than what it would be getting. Which was pretty much a tormented awareness for all eternity.   
Carefully, with long, pale fingers, he held up one of the jars. "Phoenix tears," he whispered hoarsely, his voice dusty from almost two days of disuse and silence. The pearly silver fluid slashed softly into the dish with the hairs, which floated on top of it.   
Slowly, Tom put down the jar and picked up another. "Basilisk venom," he smiled. Milked from the fangs of his own serpent, now laid to rest until he returned. It hissed and steamed. The brown hairs began to dissolve in the venom, but the black ones glowed faintly green with a touch of silver. It was fitting for a descendent of the great Lord Slytherin.   
"Salamander scales," A turquoise dust quickly melted away in the venom and tears. The dust, when swirling slightly in the eddies of air, matched the boy's eyes.   
"Powdered griffin's talon," A golden powder that seemed to sigh slightly as it faded into the now pale green mixture.   
"Unicorn blood," Slowly it dripped out of the small crystal vial...it was not red, like the blood of humans, animals, and other creatures. It was white. Pure white, the color of snow just dropping from the clouds. The color of moonbeams dancing on a gently rippling lake. The color of an angel's wings. The concotion was silver.   
Tom took a deep breath and picked up the silver bladed knife. The handle was studded with rubies and emeralds, for blood and his heritage. It glimmered in the faint candle light. He held it to his wrist.   
"My blood."   
The dark haired boy let out a faint gasp of pain and shock as his blood splashed into the bowl. When it hit the potion, it spread out in green ripples, not red. The green and the silver swirled slowly toghether as he fumbled to mend it with his wand. The house was silent.   
When the vein in his wrist had at last stopped bleeding, he picked up the pot, sapphire blue, and the reddish hawk quill pen. And the diary.   
He poured a bit of the mixture into the inkpot. He dipped the quill in. He opened the diary and penned the three glistening emerald words... 

Tom Marvelo Riddle 

The world disappeared in a haze of smoke.   
  
He was floating.   
But he was also drifting down.   
Softly he landed, feet making no noise at all on a soft, cloud like substance.   
He saw nothing, and heard nothing. But now there was a flash on the horizon, a flash that he started running to...running forever...   
It was two figures, one garbed in a gown the same perfectly pure white as the unicorn blood and radiating an air of calm and peace. The other was pure chaos, shifting shapes and colors like fire, and somehow attatched and rather close to Tom.   
"Hello," said a voice in his mind. He looked to the white person, but its lips did not move. But the words came from him all the same.   
"You have come to give your soul to the pages, boy," said the shifting person. The words from him too, were in his mind yet as real as though they had been spoken aloud.   
"I guess so..." Tom tried to say, but nothing came out. The white person smiled indulgently and seemingly took the words from his mouth and hung them in the air. He tried to focus hims ind to send out his words this time, and knew the two figures could hear him. "But I would rather like to keep a soul with me..."   
"There is a way," said the white figure.   
"It requires a great sacrifice," the Shifter told him.   
"I am ready," the boy said resolutely.   
The White shook his head sadly. "You must make a choice."   
"To determine who you will be now, and thus who the soul of the diary will be," Shifter said.   
"A choice between the Light and the Dark."   
"Forever shall one or the other dominate your destiny, with no turning back."   
"That you have come here shows that you have great courage and skill, young mage."   
"And if the dark is what you have chosen, your powers shall grow ten-fold. And I will be with you, to guide you always."   
"The light will bring happiness, joy, peace, and love."   
A choice...Light and Dark...power...love? Tom Riddle didn't know the word. His mother had been taken. His father had left. He had no friends. No happiness, joy, or peace. He had lived with out them, and could do so. Power was temping...   
"The Dark," he shouted to the two figures.   
The calm, white robed figure disappeared in a wisp of smoke. It left only a faint sense of regret in the air that blew to Tom.   
"You are wise," rasped Shifter. "You become now a Disciple of the Dark, and I, your master, give you a new name."   
Three burning words appeared, and the little diary. Tom Marvelo Riddle. The boy felt a catch in this throat, and a small winged thing flew into the book. The letters of his old name flew frantically around each other, and reformed into four different words.   
I Am Lord Voldemort.   
  
The dark-haired boy rose slowly. There was the diary sitting on the desk. All of his other things had vanished.   
Slowly he rose to his feet. He picked up the diary and, hands trembling, opened to the first page, as blank as anything. He took a pot of regular ink from his pocket, and placed anothe quill in it. He wrote the words:   
I Am Lord Voldemort   
Voldemort. It was a good name. Translated, it could be read as 'Flight of Death'. For the death that he would cause, and his enemies would flee from.   
"What else do you think I would give you, my protegee?" the Shifter asked from inside his head. "You powers will be great, Lord of Death. Vanquish the Light. Let the Dark rule on this mortal realm."   
"Don't worry," Lord Voldemort promised silently, nodding so feverently his dark hair bounced childishly.   
But he was a child no longer.   
He was the Heir of Slytherin.   
The Disciple of Dark.   
Lord Voldemort. 


End file.
